One Knee
by questionsleftunanswered
Summary: John has a secret. Sherlock makes the wrong deduction and assumes the opposite of the truth. It doesn't take long for John to set things right again.


Dr. John Watson had no idea how his flatmate would react. Well, one could hardly ever anticipate the actions of a man such as Sherlock Holmes. John though he knew Sherlock better than anyone else the man had encountered, even Sherlock's own brother. He knew though, that even he could never know Sherlock's next move.

Of course, John had consulted Harry. On more than one occasion he found himself pressing the number 4 speed dial and waiting for his sister's familiar voice to ask him what the hell he wanted this time. John even went as far as to consult Mycroft. Politely declining the offer of deep pockets, John explained that he wanted it to be simple. Mycroft only chuckled and told him that Sherlock probably already knew of his intentions anyway.

John had gone over it a thousand times in his head and still it seemed to be missing something. He had the most perfect plan. It was simple. It was elegant. It was…still missing something. He couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, but his plan still had a huge gaping hole in it. That was unacceptable. Sherlock deserved perfection.

John had been in love with this madman for nearly two years. It was their anniversary in one week and John wanted to propose. He had been planning this for a month. The thought first occurred to him after they had gotten home from a particularly exhilarating chase. Once again following Sherlock through the darkest corners London had to offer, John realized that he never wanted to stop. He wanted this life with Sherlock forever. They had gotten home and pressed close to one another. Skin against skin, Sherlock unraveled before his eyes. That was his favorite part of making love, watching the guarded genius give way to a man consumed with need. As they lay there, a tangled mass of limbs and sheets, John's mind wandered back to thoughts of the future.

The next day he decided he was going to marry Sherlock whether Sherlock wanted to or not. Then he hit a road block. He hit quite a number of then actually: how to propose, what kind of ring, does he even give Sherlock an engagement ring, will Sherlock even say yes, where is important enough to do it, does Sherlock even want to marry him, what happened to "I'm married to my work," maybe we're not ready for this. That was the first call to Harry. He dumped all his doubts, worries, and concerns on her. She was almost no help. Most of her advice consisted of "Do what you think is right."

So John called Mycroft, or rather Mycroft cleverly picked him up again. This time the car brought him to a rather nice house just outside London. Ignoring the fact that Mycroft could no doubt anticipate every word, John unloaded all his thoughts. Mycroft offered to pay for everything and anything. He even went as far as to offer to shut down the Eye except for the pair and have a plane write it in the sky before them. John hurriedly declined each increasingly extravagant offer.

With both parties having been no help at all, John escaped to the kitchen of Mrs. Hudson. He finally, with help from the sentimental woman, was able to piece together a plan of action.

The ring would be a simple, thin gold band. It would happen in Angelo's because that was their first date; though Sherlock denies that it really counted as a date. John would get down on one knee.

That plan was formulated two weeks ago. Since then it had changed nearly a dozen times and then changed back to its original state. Their anniversary was quickly approaching and the ring was stowed away between the pages of John's copy of _Grey's Anatomy_. Keeping something this big from an expert in deduction was proving to be just as challenging as John had anticipated. As a result, he was coming off as aloof and preoccupied. He spent more time in his room alone and it was beginning to worry Sherlock. John could tell that Sherlock was trying to figure out what was happening without outright asking. Sherlock never was good with communication about such domestic matters.

The anxiety was finally becoming too much, and Sherlock burst into John's room entirely unannounced. Meeting his eyes and then quickly looking away, Sherlock took a step forward towards the bed. John sat watching him, unsure of what was happening. Instead of sitting on the bed, Sherlock backed up again and closed the door behind him. He began pacing, mumbling to himself, and clasping and unclasping his hands. Finally he stopped and backed up against the door; Sherlock sank to the ground and gathered his knees against his chest.

"So you're leaving then," Sherlock kept his eyes down, but his voice was strong, steady, and defiant. "You've talked to my brother, you've talked to Harry, and you've talked to Mrs. Hudson. I think it's safe for me to assume that you've enlisted Mycroft to…detain me. Harry is giving you a place to stay until your sort things out. Mrs. Hudson has already accepted your last payment on the flat."

John only sat motionless on his bed and stared at Sherlock, unable to process what he was hearing. Sherlock though John was _leaving_ him.

"I suppose it's only one's natural reaction. I do tend to be a bit difficult. Is it the violin?" Sherlock looked up. He looked like he wanted to beg and plead but that his own pride wouldn't let him. "I can stop playing the violin at all hours in the morning. Is it calling you at the clinic? Is it Sarah? No, no it can't be Sarah. Did Mycroft do something? Did Lestrade? Did Donovan?" Sherlock had stopped addressing John and was once again examining every single possibility; absorbed in his own mind. Suddenly he stood up and turned the door knob.

Looking back at John, Sherlock said, "I don't blame you, you know."

John felt horrible. Not because of Sherlock's distress, but because of his own reaction. It was so horribly inappropriate for him to be sitting on his bed giggling like a school girl. John slapped a hand over his mouth and tried to look contrite, but Sherlock gave him a look of such puzzlement that he couldn't contain himself. Still attempting to suppress his laughter, John got up and went to Sherlock. John rested his hand over Sherlock's on the door knob and pushed the door closed.

"You're an idiot," John reached up with his other hand to pull Sherlock down and kiss him gently. "I'm not leaving you."

Sherlock's eyes flew open, "But you made all the arrangements…"

"I didn't arrange anything," John shook his head.

"Yes you did I saw you. I even saw Mycroft's little pet pick you up!"

"He just wanted a word," John bit his lip thoughtfully, "Unless you…Were you _hoping_ that I was leaving?"

"No!" Sherlock panicked, "No, no, no, not at all, I don't – I never – I – No." Sherlock tumbled over his words. Giving up, he kissed John again; smiling against his lips.

"Good. I don't have any intention of leaving."

"But why did you go to all of them then?" Sherlock's mind was back to the drawing board. "You're not in any danger are you?"

"No. I've actually been in top form lately."

"Well you wouldn't go to them for advice. They are hardly the ideal candidates for such things. Did you go to them for financial aid?"

"No, Sherlock I – "

"Because I have money if you need it. I should have about 500,000£ stored in various banks if you need it. You can take as much as you need."

"Wait, _really_? You have that much money? How the hell did you get that much money? The Yard doesn't even pay you!"

"Oh like I need the Yard's money. I'm capable of making money should I need it."

"Well, no. Thanks, but I do not need your money."

"Then what do you want from me?" Sherlock raised his voice in confusion and frustration. Releasing John, he took a step and then landed heavily on the bed. Face down into John's pillow, Sherlock inhaled the smell. It was clean and average, very much like John himself.

"I can't figure it out," Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. It was barely audible and John only heard a muffled cluster of reluctant syllables.

Taking a seat beside Sherlock, John rested a hand on his lower back. "I have no idea what you just said."

Slowly lifting his head, Sherlock said in a strong, clear voice, "I can't figure it out." He dropped his head back to the pillow. "I hate not being able to solve something. John, fix it!"

John smiled and lay beside Sherlock. Squishing onto the same pillow, John's bare feet resting against Sherlock's trouser leg. He slid on arm up on Sherlock's back and began playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. It was like comforting an upset child. John knew exactly what to do to calm Sherlock down. Pressing his body against the taller man, John leaned in to gently nip at Sherlock's earlobe.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"

It was a simple question, but it left Sherlock baffled. Sherlock turned his head towards John, looking his straight in the eyes. "I don't know. John, how can I not know what I want?" Sherlock rolled over onto his back and stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Not everything needs to be analyzed, you know." John sat up a bit, resting his head against the headboard of the bed. He gathered Sherlock close to him and Sherlock rested his head on John's chest. Still running his fingers lazily through Sherlock's hair, John continued. "Are you happy with me?" John looked over at his bedside table where _Grey's Anatomy_ rest. It was within arm's reach. The gold band was on page 394.

"Of course I'm happy with you. You know that." Sherlock took one of John's hands in his own.

John closed his eyes and didn't think. He reached over and grabbed the heavy book and rested it on the bed next to him. "Sherlock…" He began, flipping the pages slowly, buying time to form the words properly. "Sherlock, I love you."

"I know," was his only response. They had already told one another those complicated three words, but it wasn't something they over did. They were both aware of it and didn't want to mess up a good thing by overusing "I love you."

"Sherlock, what I mean is that I want to spend every day of my life with you." John was on page 300.

"I know, John," Sherlock paused, "Why are you reading Grey's while telling me this?"

"I'm not reading it." Page 350.

"Fine, why are you turning the ages of Grey's?"

"I was looking for something." Page 394. The page was out of Sherlock's eyesight. John closed his hand over the ring and leaned down to kiss the top of Sherlock's head.

"What?"

"This." John lifted Sherlock's head and got down on one knee beside the bed. All of his plans were abandoned in this one perfect moment. He didn't care that it wasn't their anniversary. He didn't care that this was a perfectly average day. He didn't care that they were in his dingy little bedroom or that Sherlock was looking at him from his tidy little bed. John didn't even care that his palms were sweaty and his hands were shaking nervously. The only thing that existed in John Watson's world was Sherlock Holmes.

Holding up the ring in his hand, John met Sherlock's eyes. He saw something there he had never seen before. John saw a good man.

"Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?" John held his breath.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Then a wide smile broke out on his face. "I would love to marry you."

Still shaking, John slid the ring onto Sherlock's long, thin finger.

John knew that this was right. He knew that he and Sherlock were perfect. But one though got in the way of this: Did Sherlock feel the same?

John looked up and reached a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck. He pulled Sherlock down to kiss him hard. Their lips moved together. Sherlock's touch was comfortable, familiar. Sherlock drew him off his knee and back onto the bed. They rolled over and John was resting on top of Sherlock. He could feel the ring against the back of his neck where Sherlock held him tight. The unfamiliar cold of the metal soon warmed between them. John sat up and shifted so that he was straddling Sherlock's hips. Untucking Sherlock's shirt and teasing his fingers under the fabric, John felt himself begin to harden under his trousers.

Sherlock looked up at him and smirked, "John, we don't want to get my pretty new ring all messy."

John grinded his hips above Sherlock's growing erection and took Sherlock's hands in his. "I have no intention of messing up your ring."

"Then what are your intentions?"

"Nothing good."

"Excellent."

Sherlock began tugging at John's belt and soon had it on the floor beside the bed. Unbuttoning John's trousers as well, Sherlock rolled them over so that he could whisk them off. John's erection was outlined perfectly by the navy boxers he had on. Sherlock couldn't help himself. He bent over and mouthed John through the increasingly unnecessary fabric.

John hissed in a breath at the heat pooling inside him. He needed Sherlock more than he had ever even wanted another person. He fisted Sherlock's hair and held him in place. Sherlock moaned at the pleasure-pain. John released him and sat up. He pulled his jumper and t-shirt together over his head and let them fall to the floor as well. His dog tags clicked softly against each other as they fell back to rest on John's exposed chest. At the sound, Sherlock's head lifted. His eyes slowly looked up John's body, devouring every inch until they finally saw the chain. Sherlock wasted no time moving back up John's body; pausing to dip his tongue into John's navel and then twice again to worship John's nipples. Finally, Sherlock pulled the chain into his mouth, careful to not get the tags themselves.

Sherlock lightly bit down on his favorite possession of John's. He loved the metallic taste they left behind. Of course Sherlock was a fan of the knit jumpers, the L9A1 that was always within reach, and he even preferred John's computer over his own. But those tags drove him mad. Sherlock could – and had – sat with John for hours on the couch threading the chain, still around John's neck, through his fingers. Here though, the tags took a whole new meaning.

Sherlock replaced his mouth with his fingers, pulling John close to kiss him again. Their tongues slip easily back into the familiar pace. John begins to fumble with the buttons on Sherlock's rich purple shirt. After about four tires, John managed to get the topmost button undone. Sherlock smiled against his lips and sat back on his shins, deftly flicking open the rest and dropping his shirt to the growing pile of discarded clothes.

John drank in the sight. Sherlock's physical beauty never ceased to floor John. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about it was that Sherlock didn't seem to notice or care. Sherlock wore perfectly tailored clothes because that was what he was accustomed to, not because of vanity. He only took pride in his work. Sherlock took adequate care of his personal hygiene and, for John's sake, ate a proper meal at least once a day. He didn't fuss about with his clothes or worry about matching colors. Sherlock was effortlessly beautiful.

"Take off your trousers before I have to rip them off," John challenged Sherlock. He knew full well that Sherlock would comply. The last time he didn't, John had literally ripped the seams to get them off.

Sherlock stood and gracefully lowered his trousers so that they rested just below his hips. He paused to admire the ring on his finger. Then he lowered them all the way and stepped out.

Sherlock's pants were tented. John could tell he badly needed release. Sliding his own pants off, barely containing a gasp as his cock was released, John motioned for Sherlock to do the same. Again, Sherlock followed orders and joined John on the bed. John moved them both around until Sherlock was on his back and John was straddling his hips. Gripping both of their erections in his hand, John began to slowly move up and down. Sherlock fought the urge to thrust up into John's hand.

All too soon John released them and Sherlock sighed at the loss of contact. He wasn't untouched for long. John had gotten the lube out of the bedside table and slicked two fingers.

"Roll over for me, love," John commanded.

Sherlock, eager to please John, immediately did as he was told. "_Please_, John." He whimpered. Sherlock was face down in the pillow with his arse offered to John.

Needing no more encouragement, John eased both fingers into Sherlock.

Sherlock's gasp at the coldness quickly turned into a moan of pleasure. Sherlock was never quiet. Even in bed every movement was punctuated with gasps or moans.

After carefully preparing Sherlock, John rubbed lube along his length.

"How do you want me, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Hard, fast, _now_." Sherlock's voiced was saturated with lust. John would never tire of the sound of Sherlock when he was desperate.

"Turn over and look at me."

Sherlock did so. John gripped his hips and pulled Sherlock to him; hard enough to make an impression, but not to bruise.

John slowly sheathed himself in Sherlock's tight hole.

"_Fuck_," Sherlock tossed his head back. John was sure the neighbors could hear, but he was too distracted to care.

"Yes, let me hear you," John encouraged. Moving slowly to let Sherlock get used to him, John wanted nothing more than to give Sherlock exactly what he had asked. Hard and fast.

"Move, John. Oh fuck, yes, there," Sherlock begged.

John quickened his pace and was sure to hit Sherlock's prostate. The sound of his own moans, the slap of skin on skin, and the clink of John's dog-tags was quickly pushing Sherlock closer to the edge. He twisted his hands in the sheets just as he twisted his face in pleasure. Sherlock's mind was devoid of case files or analysis or experiments. All that mattered now was the sweat covering himself and John; his legs keeping John close; the smell of sex that saturated the air; the feel of John inside him; the feel of John's ring on his finger.

John gasped and pumped into Sherlock harder. A glint of gold had given him renewed vigor.

"You're so fucking good, Sherlock."

"Yes, harder, John. Please I'm so close."

Sherlock had reached down and was moving his hand along his cock in time with John's thrusts.

"Yes, fuck. Come for me Sherlock."

Moving his hand faster, Sherlock made a sound halfway between a growl and a moan. His eyes dark and fixated on John, Sherlock came hard. He spilled on his and John's stomachs.

As he came, Sherlock's inner muscles clenched around John's cock. John came inside Sherlock, riding out his orgasm and releasing his load inside Sherlock.

After they had both come down and cleaned up their mess, they retired back to John's bed. Sherlock curled against John like he usually did, tucking his curls under John's chin and resting one leg across John's own, careful to not press his face against John's tags. John gently kissed the top of Sherlock's head. He took Sherlock's left hand in his own to examine the ring.

"Why do you want to marry me John?" Sherlock's voice broke their silence. It was uncharacteristically unsteady, similar to that of a school girl telling her crush of her affections.

"Because I love you," John said. He curved his free hand up to run his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"Why do you love me?" Sherlock persisted. He was suddenly to rationalize again. He wanted to make the concept, the feeling of love into something more tangible.

"I love you because you fascinate me. You frustrate me, but constantly find ways to make me happy. You're brilliant and gorgeous. You're confident in yourself, even if a bit more so than others. You take pride in your work, but are not a man of pride. And when you look at me, I feel like I belong. More than I belonged with my fellows at uni, more than I belonged with my troop in Afghanistan, even more than I belong in a medical tent. I – It's difficult to describe exactly."

The entire time he had been speaking, John's hand had never left Sherlock's hair and the other had never left Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock was entirely still. He was trying to process such an honest declaration. He tried to see himself John's way and just couldn't. Whenever Sherlock looked at himself from the view of others, he usually saw what Donovan and Anderson saw. It was very rare that he ever attempted to objectively perceive himself as a person. Now, though, John had given him new data to work with. Sherlock's self confidence while working had never been feigned. He was very certain of such a black and white world. He was not, however, certain of himself.

Gripping John's hand in his own, Sherlock said confidently, "I love you. You are the most important person in my world."

John smiled and buried his face in Sherlock's curls again.

"Go to sleep, my love," John said calmly.

"I know. Besides, Mycroft will have us both up early tomorrow morning for congratulations."

"How will he know you said yes or that I even asked? I had a plan that I obviously didn't follow through with."

"Mycroft knows everything." Sherlock shrugged and nestled closer to John.

John only smiled and looked up at the ceiling. Eventually, Sherlock's breathing slowed and John knew he was asleep.

The last thought John had before sleep claimed him was of Sherlock and himself and their future together.


End file.
